


Birds in Flight

by raiyana



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Culture & Customs, Gen, Language of Birds, People of Dale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-17
Updated: 2020-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:00:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23189623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raiyana/pseuds/raiyana
Summary: Bard hears things.Things his friends do not."Birds can't talk," they say, telling him he's making up stories in his head.But is he?
Relationships: Bard & Bard's Grandfather
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11
Collections: Worldbuilding Exchange 2020





	Birds in Flight

“It’s in your blood, lad,” his grandfather Dubhán rumbled, work-roughened hands quick as silver fish as they checked the net for tears. Giving Bard a gimlet look, he drew in a puff of his pipe – southclinch, black as the tar they used on the boats in spring, and a smell that had always been _granddad_ to Bard – and let the net fall from his fingers for a moment. Gesturing with the pipe at a pair of swallows dancing far above them, Dubhán smiled. “My mam,” he said, blowing a smoke ring into the sunshine, “she would sing with the wee birdies, and tell me stories of all they’d seen aflight.”

“The birds spoke to her?”

“Oh aye, it’s from her blood you get it, my lad,” his grandfather nodded sagely, leaning back against the side of the house for a moment, raising his face to the sun’s warmth. “Now, it’s an old skill – came to us from the Northlands – born in the folk of the Mountains.”

“Dwarrow?” Bard asked, putting his end of the net down though he didn’t look up at the sun, studying his grandfather’s familiar weather-bitten face instead.

“Nay – though they speak too, to the Ravens that used to live with ‘em,” grandfather shrugged. “That is a different thing; the Ravens speak a form of Dwarvish, I think.” Scratching his thick grey beard, Dubhán looked pensive for a moment, eyes drawn by the solitary peak in the distance. “No, the people I speak of were called Lossoth by the Elves who liked to name things in their tongue, though they called themselves the People of Snow-Bay.”

“What Mountains?” Bard asked, angling for a story.

Grandfather chuckled, reaching down to ruffle his hair. “The Far Mountains, lad,” he said, pointing with the pipe over his shoulder. “Beyond the Elvenking’s Forest, the Misty Mountains rise; ah… they’re a sight, my wee lad – three peaks, shrouded in clouds and silvered by snow that glitters in sunlight and doesn’t melt, even in the warmest of summers. Beyond them lay the realm of Men called Arthedain… and beyond _that_ was where the People of Snow-Bay lived among the snowy reaches of the north.”

“Sounds cold,” Bard pretend-shivered, making Dubhán’s low laugh ring out across the water once more.

“Oh, aye, like the Lake in first spring,” Dubhán agreed sagely, puffing on his pipe, “but the People lived there, in the caves of a winter, and on the slopes and in the lands around the range in summertime, hunting and foraging for their food.”

“And they knew what the birds say, too?” Bard asked, soothed by the thought that maybe he wasn’t losing his mind like old Olla. At least, hearing birds talk about worms and the perfectly ripe berries wasn’t making him tempted to run out on the winter ice without clothes on – _yet_.

“The People had lived in the mountains for a long time; some of them even retained the even older knowledge of how a man could change his skin into that of an animal,” Dubhán told him, an uncommonly grave expression on his lined face, “though the clans of shape shifters had disappeared from those lands an age before.” Huffing a draw on the pipe, wrapping his hand around the bowl, he paused. “But the Birdsingers were valued among them, for they had the kennings of nature, you see – birds see much, and may warn you of more things than your own sense tells you.”

“Like where the fish are?” Bard wondered, looking at a fish hawk diving like an arrow into the water, emerging with a fat silver fish in its talons.

“Perhaps – is it fish hawks you hear then?” Dubhán asked, turning his head to look at Bard instead of the fish hawk perched on a rock as it tore into its catch.

“I don’t think so,” Bard sighed. Knowing where to take the boats for the best fishing would have been _useful_ , at least. “It’s a small twitterer, I reckon – most concerned with how delicious snails are.”

“Aye, you take after me mam, lad,” grandfather grinned. “She would always get this pinched face when she was hanging her laundry out and the thrushes were singing for her, telling me not to stuff snails in my mouth for any reason when I was a wean.”

“Did you?” Bard giggled, trying to imagine grandfather being small like him.

“Once,” Dubhán muttered, giving Bard a conspiratorial wink. “It wasnae _bad_ , really… chewy and slimy, didn’t taste like much, honestly, but I’d prefer a good piece of fried fish any day. Also I recall getting sick to my tummy for a day afterwards.”

“Ew.”

“Indeed. So best you take that advice, wee Bard- snails are for the birdies, not for the people.”

“So are we the People of Snow?” Bard asked.

“Nay,” Dubhán said, looking north with a sad expression. “We’re the Men of Dale… my mam, she was a descendant, so I suppose I might claim some of their blood, too – and your affinity for the Language certainly marks you of their kindred, I feel... but the People are no more, scattered over the North and south both, married into clans of other kindreds; there has been no People of Snow-Bay for centuries.”

“Did my mam hear the birdies, too?” Bard asked.

Grandfather sighed softly, his big hand coming down to ruffle Bard’s hair again. “She didnae say as such to me,” he admitted, “but I should think it likely; she always knew when we’d get a storm, for example, better’n any fisherman of my ken.”

Bard nodded. “If my mam an’ your mam also heard the birdies, then I won’t be like old Olla, right, grandda?”

Dubhán’s laugh filled him with more warmth than the sun high in the sky. Bard ducked his head shyly, comforted by Dubhán’s barked hand squeezing him gently against his side.

“I think there’s nae chance of that, lad,” he rumbled. “Olla… she was a poor soul, and we must pity her losses. Think kindly on her, for she suffered much in life.”

“Yes, grandfather,” Bard promised. “Will you tell me a story about the People?”

“If’n you help me finish this net ‘fore supper, aye,” Dubhán nodded, knocking out his pipe and picking up the net once more.

Bard hurried to pick up his end, making Dubhán laugh when he looked up at him, eagerness painted on his small face.

“Verra well, lad,” Dubhán chuckled. “Long before you or I were born, there lived a tribe of Men in the northmost western parts of this world…"

**Author's Note:**

> [Into the snowy reaches of the North](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23200441)


End file.
